


The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

by Hlessi



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Kink Meme, M/M, Minor Character Death, some language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hlessi/pseuds/Hlessi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo was twenty-two when he became an orphan, an only child, and a single parent in one afternoon. Now he's twenty-three and trying to keep his traumatized nephew out of foster care, make his bills on a server's tips, and not fail out of university.</p><p>He's overworked, exhausted, worried sick, and really, really doesn't have any time for pushy freshmen. Even one that looks like Durinson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Response to [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=2602939#t2602939) over at the Hobbit Kink Meme.

He spasms awake to muffled whimpering in the other room.

To his tired shame, the very first conscious thought he has is _It's Wednesday, I have work at five._

Guilt peels Bilbo's eyelids back.

The flat's cold. Either the heat's off again or he forgot to put it on in the first place. There's something dripping somewhere. When he levers himself upright, his head pounds and his back protests with several jarringly loud cracks, but he scrubs at his face and his hair with his fingers until the wooziness abates. The chill of the floor is a shock that has him jerking his bare feet back up onto the futon until he remembers the four hours of weekend that he spent pulling up the carpeting.

The light coming through the blinds is livid and raw, too early to be morning but too late to be night, some sullen, chalky time in between. At least another hour or two to go, then, before his alarm's set to go off. It's an improvement over the two o'clock wake-ups, but not by much.

His homework is still on the coffee table, the laptop on screensaver and the text open to the page he slumped over for twenty minutes before he finally gave up and closed his aching eyes for _just a few minutes_. Anxiety clenches his stomach and doesn't ease even slightly when he remembers that his paper, due in six hours, is still at least four pages and a substantial number of citations short of being finished. This is not to mention the time he will have to take to go to the library and get the thing printed.

The tea in his cup is stale, dust filming the surface. He drinks it anyway.

The other room is just behind the futon. The door is half-ajar. When Bilbo pulls it farther open, transparent yellow bears dance over the walls.

“Frodo?”

The whimpering cuts off. A wet, congested voice mews _“I'm sorry.”_

Bilbo's eyes are so dry and gritty that it almost hurts to keep them open. He realizes all of a sudden that he's still wearing his clothes from yesterday, his work clothes, and he smells like smoke and stout. “No, love, it's all right. What happened?”

A heap of hypoallergenic fleece turns on its side and there's a stuffed-up sniffle that makes Bilbo think _Oh Christ, he's got a cold._ Huge blue eyes damp up at him.

“I had a bad dream,” whispers Frodo. His brows are pinched, his face white. He's so ashamed.

Bilbo sits on the edge of the toddler bed that Frodo is not growing out of as quickly as he should. Out of habit, he puts his hand down on the sheeted mattress protector as if he's steadying himself. It's not wet, so there's that. “About Mum?”

Frodo's lip trembles. “I'm sorry.”

He's been saying that a lot. Bilbo doesn't know where exactly he's picked up this habit of assuming guilt, but it's unnerving. “There's nothing to be sorry about.” Bilbo clears his throat and swallows; he needs to brush his teeth. “We can't help the dreams we have.”

Frodo shifts around in his blankets. His expression is pleading even as he's trying not to be.

Bilbo pulls off his long-sleeved button up first, though his undershirt with its odor of sweat and sleep isn't much better. It's so cold that he shivers, but then he picks up Frodo, blankets and all, and it's like holding a hot water bottle in a towel. _Please God, don't let him be catching something._ Little arms go around his neck and stick there.

Frodo mutters into Bilbo's neck, “Can we stay here today?”

It's so tempting. So nauseatingly tempting. He could keep Frodo home from nursery, skip his two classes, e-mail in his assignments from the Starbucks with apologies and hope it's good enough. Then he'd have the whole morning to finish his paper and the whole afternoon to get Frodo properly fed and sleepy before he goes to work.

Bilbo has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He has to remind himself that he missed five classes and three days of work the month before because of a flu Frodo brought home from nursery school. He has to remind himself that he's already missed two classes this month while attending meetings with Frodo's nursery manager and the social worker from care, and it's only the tenth. He has to remind himself that Frodo could at any minute have a real emergency, and need him to be there regardless of his schedule.

“I'm sorry, Frodo,” Bilbo murmurs into Frodo's ear, “but not today, all right? We Bagginses are responsible men, and responsible men go to school. But I'll tell you what, what if we have spaghetti for dinner tonight? Spaghetti and meatballs, just as you like.”

Frodo doesn't say anything. By the movement of his jaw and the sudden moisture on his shoulder, Bilbo thinks Frodo must be chewing on his blanket again. It'll need washing.

The night light keeps turning, painting the walls and ceiling of Frodo's little room in shades of honey. Bilbo swings Frodo's door wide so that the flat is softly yellow with prancing bears. One-armed, he gets the heat on, checks the faucet in the kitchen to see if it's dripping, fills the kettle for tea, and gets the stove going, keeping an eye out for bugs the entire time. They've never had a problem before, not with a landlord so particular about pests, but he skimmed a news article about bed bugs at the doctor's office on Monday, and since then he's been paranoid.

He's getting out the milk and the box of oatmeal and singing under his breath to a fidgeting Frodo when the thought comes, a thought as loud as if someone had shouted it in his ear: _I can't keep doing this._

Frodo's sagging against his shoulder, head lolling as he drowses. He's going to get tetchy later, especially if he refuses to go down for his nap, like Miss at nursery's reported he's been doing. He's not as hot or sweaty as he was when Bilbo first picked him up, so maybe he's not getting sick, maybe he was just overwrought with the nightmare and trying not to cry. Did he have his bath last night? Why can't Bilbo remember?

_I can't keep doing this._

Bilbo sets down the milk and puts his hand over his eyes. He applies pressure.

_I have to drop out,_ Bilbo thinks into his hand, thinks it wearily. _I have to drop out of uni._

Frodo's fussing. Without thinking, Bilbo adjusts his hold and presses his cheek to black hair. His hand moves from over his eyes to Frodo's back, rubbing in circles. He makes a mental note to make an actual note in his planner about buying more milk and asking Miss to keep an eye on Frodo in case he is coming down with something.

It's only five fifteen.

The light behind the blinds is beginning to pale, and the kettle starts to whistle.


	2. Chapter 2

The notice on the door reads _Class canceled due to emergency. Deadline for assignment extended 24 hours. Submit via e-mail._

The morning hiccups.

The second floor of the King's Building is unusually quiet for this time of day. There are two minutes before class should have started and no one else is tearing around the corner in a panic. That probably means there's an unread e-mail somewhere in his inbox that would have saved him an entire hour and Tube fare, except he checked his e-mail just before taking Frodo to nursery and didn't see anything. Or was he just not paying attention?

This should be a reprieve, but it feels like a complication.

Bilbo sips lukewarm tea from his travel mug, rubs the side of his face with the one unencumbered shoulder, and lets his eyes go unfocussed, standing with his weight on his heels in front of the notice. He's trying to rethink through the next six hours of his day. His assignment's printed and wearing a report folder in his bag, but it could stand to be at least one or two pages longer and include two or three more offline citations. He could go to the library and finish it now, or he could go home and use the library online. If he goes home, then he'll have time to do the laundry, vacuum, finish and turn in his paper, and fix dinner before he has to pick Frodo up from nursery. He may even be able to take a nap. The only problem is that he meant to stop by Professor Grey's office to talk to him about withdrawing after this term, and the professor's hours aren't until later in the afternoon. He supposes he could go home and come back, but that means getting on the Tube another two times. He really does need to get his bike fixed, he's probably spent his repair money on his Travelcard three times over. If he's going back to the flat, should he go by the nursery school and check on Frodo? Miss didn't seem too concerned when Bilbo asked her to keep an eye on Frodo in case of coughing or fever, but she's got twenty other children to be after, doesn't she, and she hasn't exactly been the most helpful or the most patient with Frodo. Bilbo really wishes Mrs. Gamgee hadn't quit, she was a miracle in a jumper, but with three babies at home it's no surprise—

_“Good morning, Mr. Boggins,”_ someone breathes into his ear.

A mouthful of tea stops part-way down his throat and Bilbo coughs, spluttering Red Label everywhere. Someone immediately wallops him on the back, a blow that makes Bilbo's knees buckle but doesn't otherwise help.

“Sorry,” the same voice lies cheerfully.

Bilbo wipes his mouth with a corner of his pullover's sleeve and does the same for his hand. Then he caps his mug, in much the same way he might have locked a safe. “It's Baggins,” he says halfheartedly. Finally, with no small amount of reluctance, Bilbo looks up.

Kili Durinson is, as per usual, looking very pleased with himself and, as per usual, standing entirely too close. He does this every time. Bilbo has wondered more than once whether Durinson's parents ever bothered to explain the concept of personal space to him. Perhaps they're foreign.

That would explain that hair. And those eyes.

“Durinson,” mutters Bilbo. He hopes he doesn't sound as put-upon to Durinson as he does to himself. There's no need to be rude. “Bit early for you, isn't it.”

“Kili,” corrects Durinson. His dark hair, damp and, Bilbo can't help but notice, fragrant with some subtly redolent shampoo, is pulled back from his face with a thready tartan headband. He ought to look silly. Instead, he looks as if he's strayed from a photo shoot. Life is unfair. “And no, actually, I had footy.” He shrugs the shoulder that has a REI gym bag slung over it.

Football. _Naturally._ Bilbo shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to put at least a few more millimeters between the front of Durinson's coat and the entire left side of Bilbo's body. “I didn't know you had any lectures on this campus.”

“I don't.” Durinson smiles. “I was going to sit in on yours, but.” He indicates the notice with a tilt of his head.

“Sit in,” repeats Bilbo.

Durinson's smile widens. That's a lot of very white, very even teeth.

“On Literature and Language in Anglo-Saxon England.”

Durinson is smiling with his entire face, and he does that thing with his shoulders like he's shrugging forwards. The gesture makes him look even more alarmingly boyish than he already is.

Bilbo just looks at him.

“I wanted to see you,” says Durinson. There's no _admitting_ ; he simply says it, openly and artlessly, without hesitation or discomfort.

The worst thing Bilbo could possibly do at this moment is blush. His face and ears disagree.

Durinson somehow manages to look even _more_ pleased with himself, which ought to be impossible. He laughs under his breath, the way one does when something is deeply and intimately gratifying, and there is nothing boyish in _that_.

This is not at all good.

“Well, you've seen me,” says Bilbo stiffly, and if it comes out more harshly than he meant it to, his face is still uncomfortably hot. “Good morning!”

Without another glance, Bilbo turns and walks briskly toward the stairs.

Unfortunately for him, Durinson has, in addition to a malfunctioning amygdala, a complete lack of tact. He catches up in exactly two steps, not even trying, and Bilbo doesn't bother to try walking faster because it's useless. Durinson has legs up to his neck.

“Anyway,” says Durinson, as if they were in the middle of a conversation, “since you're not busy, why don't we get some breakfast? I know this place—”

“I'll have you know I'm _extremely_ busy.” Bilbo is not lying. He can think of at least a dozen errands he could run in the time it would take to fidget uncomfortably through a meal with Durinson. “And I'm not hungry.”

Durinson _oh_ s under his breath. “So your class _wasn't_ just unexpectedly canceled.”

“No.”

“You're exactly on schedule.”

“Yes!”

“You weren't just standing there, confused and frightened, trying to sort out what to do next.”

_“Confused and—”_

At the bottom of the stairs, Durinson unexpectedly thrusts his arm under Bilbo's. When he locks their elbows together and continues walking, Bilbo's lifted almost right off his feet, his bag banging against his hip.

_“Oi—”_

“I know, I know,” says Durinson, _“Unhand me, Kili Durinson, I've no time for the likes of you, go impress someone else with your roguish good looks and witty repartee._ Do you like hash browns? Mum always has them for breakfast, but Uncle says it's a repugnant Americanism.”

_Repartee,_ mouths Bilbo.

He doesn't know what to be more upset about: that Durinson's impression of him seems to consist mostly of sticking his nose in the air and pitching his voice as high as a prepubescent girl's, or that the half of the English department that gets out of bed before eleven seems to be laughing at the sight of Bilbo being carried bodily off. They think they're so clever. _“Decided to drag him off by the hair, Durinson?” “Did you get tired of defending your maidenly virtue, Baggins?”“If love be rough with you, be rough with love!” “Incepto ne desistam!”_ If it bothers Durinson it doesn't show, as he only beams good-naturedly on everyone they pass.

“Gerroff,” hisses Bilbo, but Durinson doesn't seem to notice, and the same goes for Bilbo's attempts to get back his arm. What in God's name does Durinson eat? He's too skinny to be this strong.

Durinson takes them straight out the front doors, banging obliviously through, and Bilbo immediately begins shivering. He can't help it. He's wearing four layers, a thick sweater, and a scarf, but no coat, and he's always been terrible with the cold. The walks from the station to the college and then back are miseries that are quickly eroding what resolve of seeing out the year that he has left.

This of all things makes Durinson stop and turn to look at him, eyebrows rising. “Where's your coat?” he asks, as if he's only now noticed.

“I forgot it,” Bilbo mumbles. Frodo threw up on it a week ago, and no matter what Bilbo does he can't get the smell out. Buying a new one is out of the question, though, so he's still trying.

Finally, Durinson's arm unbars from Bilbo's, but it's not an improvement because he throws it over Bilbo's shoulders, rubbing the opposite arm. “Come on, it's just to the car.”

_He's got a car,_ Bilbo thinks, but it's difficult to be all that resentful right now because it's shockingly warm here, pressed up against Durinson's side. He has to really resist the urge to turn into the heat, to try and wrap Durinson around him like a blanket. For one thing, it would give Durinson entirely the wrong idea, and for another thing, Bilbo knows very well why this feels so wonderful and familiar, why he's relaxing almost against his will, and there's nothing in that line of thought for him but regret.

“Look, Durinson,” Bilbo begins, “I really—”

“Kili,” interrupts Durinson. “It's _Kili_.”

Bilbo sighs. “Look, I really don't have time, all right? Thank you for the invitation, but I can't. I really am busy.”

Half-expecting some noisy insistence, Bilbo's somewhat surprised when Durinson doesn't say anything. The grip on his arm stays tight, but the arm over his back tenses.

Slightly alarmed, Bilbo looks up.

Durinson isn't looking at him. He's facing away, actually, across the quad, in the direction of the river. There's no trace of a smile on his face, and he in fact appears quite stoic just now. His hair and eyes are very dark against the bright sky.

“It's just breakfast,” says Durinson then. His tone is low, and resigned. He looks exactly like a very young man trying not to let on that he's upset. “Just come have breakfast.”

Stupidly, all Bilbo can really think right now is _Christ, look at those cheekbones. It's just not fair._ There is no reason, he reminds himself, no reason at all, for him to be feeling a pang of remorse, or a pang of anything. It is past time for him to put a definite end to this and everything in his experience tells him that this is the moment, the point of no return. After six preposterous weeks, Durinson is at the limit of even his mad persistence, and if Bilbo rebuffs him now then chances are that he'll never see Durinson again. That's as it should be. This is what he needs to have happen.

“I'm sorry, Kili,” says Bilbo. He tries to speak kindly, and ignores the twinge in his chest. “But I can't, all right?”

Durinson's head turns toward him. His eyes are wide.

For nearly ten seconds, Bilbo doesn't understand why Durinson is staring at him like that. Then Bilbo's own eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth, twenty seconds too late. Blood rushes back into his face.

_“Bilbo,”_ breathes Durinson.

“No, wait,” exclaims Bilbo, muffled behind his hand. “The second bit! Pay attention to the second bit!”

He might as well have been speaking Anglisc. At last, Durinson lets go of his arm, but before Bilbo can make his escape, Durinson has his free hand in a _really_ firm grip.

“See,” Durinson says happily. His breath fogs between them. “Was that so bad?”

_“Yes,”_ cries Bilbo, but Durinson has stopped listening and pulls Bilbo onward toward the car park, going through his pockets with his free hand for keys.

_Good grief,_ thinks Bilbo, somewhat despairingly. _I might just have to fuck him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do comment replies soon, I swears!

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.


End file.
